|
Remember those days before the Internet? Well…not really.
Trying to think back to a pre-Internet time is like trying to
recall your earliest memories as a child. Everything comes out
hazy. Try to remember half of what you were just reading about
on your last cyber-surf and that same haze drifts in. Strain
as you will, nothing definite will surface, just a wash of broken
images.
Welcome to the information-overload age, where the moment is
but an annoying wait until the next bit of information comes
up on screen, which then prompts another click, and another
wait, and then another click, and so on.
As you step into this age you'll notice everything is bathed
in a glow of indistinctness. The computer keeps buzzing and
before your eyes flash pictures and words and even sounds, and
your fingertips busy themselves against the click of the keyboard.
Quick, flip to the next page. No, that's no good, go somewhere
else—something with better information. Empty your brain;
make space for the next page.
Five minutes later—what was that first site about? Who
knows, and who cares.
But one must have something concrete in the maze that is cyberspace.
On to the next exercise—remember
your first real memory with the Internet? If you do, it's probably
more a moment of realization than a specific Web site you saw
or the joy of discovering your first e-mail. At least that's
how it was with me. And like most incidents with the Internet,
it was one of those peculiar, oh-that-was-OK-but-kinda-strange
sort of experiences that quickly fades away out of sight. But
because this one was the first, it has stuck with me, lodged
in one of the last accessible corners of my mind.
I was in my first year of university, and we had taken to idling
away our time on the Internet on these new interactive things
called 'chat lines.' My friends and I thought it was funny,
and after getting kicked off a few sites we decided to get the
whole school kicked off for a while—which
we did. But rather than receive praise for our comical genius,
we were hit with insults and pleas from annoyed students who
actually enjoyed those rooms for something else. Was it emotional
satisfaction? At the time we couldn't tell. But I remember an
odd feeling creeping in, a premonition of sorts that told me
there was something strange about this whole Internet thing.
After getting kicked off those chat rooms and enduring the reproaches
of our fellow students, we decided to let it be. Geez, if it's
that important to you, we thought.
Fast-forward a few months. We were in my room, which was ahead
of its time in that I could access the Web from my own computer.
If I were a tech-man, I certainly would have been one of the
cool ones. Unfortunately, I wasn't—a tech-man, that is.
One of the more noble avenues we students used the Internet
for was the pursuit of pornography. We were young and yes, I'm
sure we were the only ones. But back in those days I couldn't
get pictures to come up, so we had to amuse ourselves otherwise.
If this sounds almost like an old grandparent reminiscing about
the glory days of radio, before the TV was invented, it should.
Because that's what it was like for us.
Somehow my friends and I managed to 'chat' with a young girl
from Alaska one night (this was after the benevolent chat room
leaders allowed the school back on). We were sitting there at
around midnight, bored, a room full of guys staring at a computer
screen. Sound familiar?
What next, we wondered? Of course, the answer was clear: cyber
sex.
"Ask her what she's wearing," somebody yelled out. It was done.
"Tell her you're taking your shirt off." Again, it was done.
"Have her take hers off."
"Yeah, now the bra!"
"Give her a kiss."
"What's she saying?"
"She's hot."
"Really? Take off her pants."
"Now take off her panties."
"What's she saying now?"
We hung on to the next line, waiting for her words to dance
across the screen. But nothing followed. A little note came
up—our
cyber-lover had logged off.
"What? That sucks!" we all said.
Then we looked at each other. So that was cyber-sex, or at least
a taste of it. Pretty lame, we all agreed.
Everyone quickly forgot the affair and awaited the next conversation.
But as the guy at the control tower typed away, an odd feeling
came over me. I looked over my room, at everyone gawking at
the glowing box, and thought to myself, "Is this really what
it's come to?"
Five years later, whizzing through the Internet, downloading
songs and pictures, reading the news, writing e-mails, I've
accepted that, yes, this is what the world has come to. Faster.
Everything has to be faster so more information can be shoved
into the head. And pornography? Well, anyone who has ever been
on the Net knows it probably accounts for over half the Web
sites in the universe.
I wouldn't know though—it's
just what I hear. Of course I wouldn't look at it, I'm an adult
now, above those silly things. Somebody else, some perverted
soul, must be doing it all.
And let's just say that I did by accident stumble unknowingly
onto such filth. I would just delete my history folder, and
then it disappears, leaving no trace. In an instant it all vanishes
in a poof and floats away, just like all the other memories
in this the information-overload age.
Copyright © 2001 Norman Gates. All Rights
Reserved.
Norman Gates is a writer living near Toronto
trying to decide if he will abandon the Internet forever,
or not.
|
